#Enduring sword Talon

[aurelion-solar]

New League of Legends Emotes

Yone - "Yowone"

Arcane Fractured Jinx - "Get Jinxed!"

Star Guardian Kai'Sa - "Nah I'd Win"

Battle Bunny Miss Fortune - "Silly Me"

Enduring Sword Talon - "Self Slap"

Gwen - "Slouched"

[popawritter12]

Hello! I was wondering if you could do an Enduring Sword Talon x female reader? His skin lore is so fascinating but I haven't found a fiction for it just yet 🥹🫶 Take your time!

I love you and your writings 💕

Author's nothes: YEAH FUCKING BITCHES, GUESS WHO COME BACK AGAIN???

(This days were horrible guys, please be patient bcs the writer Popiña in me is dying 😞)

Also, LESSS GOOO A TALON REQUEST

Yandere! Enduring Sword Talon x Fem! reader

Yandere character: Talon Du Couteau

From the videogame/movie/serie/manga/anime: League Of Legends

Case: Kidnapping, relation of god x reader and nothing more.

Part: 1 of 1.

It was inevitable for her to be something more than human, since she could barely be anything more than a filthy, senseless, peasant donkey who even understood the alphabet, a woman who is broken, wounded, almost dead in the eyes of the gods.

But maybe that was why he chased her so much, maybe if she wasn't there he would never have returned, she would never have suffered what she had to go through.

It was still painful to remember that day, a cold autumn evening in which the leaves danced to the sound of the wind, the smell of freshly cooked food that approached from the town and spread throughout the forest, the sound of the footsteps of his boots against all the hard and brittle leaves under his feet.

It was an unthinkable and terrifying moment to wait for that pathetic day, after an ugly harvest and a terrifying dryness in the land, which would completely change her life and transform her from being a woman who was looking for meaning in her life. putrid life to a simple object, a simple thing which belonged to a ruthless God, who is selfish as a spoiled child with his toys, as sick as a patient in a psychiatric hospital after years of confinement, and as obsessed as a chess player knowing the position of each piece on his board.

Warm was the memory of her when she had first seen him; He was looking for a place to stay, since he didn't have many options since he had arrived in the mortal realm and the people, not to mention that they were not very kind to him. Therefore she decided, for the first time in her life, to give him the benefit of the doubt and give him shelter in her house.

It was painful to think that there was the option of seeing everything, of not giving him a space in her life, and especially, in her heart; She must have noticed in those grayish eyes that hint of evil, that hint of cruelty, obsessed with a bit of selfishness. And now for the first time, that she had managed to have even a hint of desire to live, everything had been taken away from her.

—Then what would you ask me here? —She asked, her hands playing with her fingers, and a feeling of doubt in the air.

He didn't respond instantly; His gaze had been fixed on the horizon, but soon, he turned to see his beloved. In his eyes, dimmed by a soft look, the feeling of security is observed.

—There is something I have always wanted to tell you—He begins his explanation—, and I think that if I don't tell you now, I will never have an opportunity like that again.

He gasped, feeling how his entire body began to have an unbearable weight, as if his mere existence were an enormous weight for a human being.

The only difference was that he was not a human being.

With a gentle touch on the woman's fingers, a grip on her palm, and a few caresses on her cracked, dry skin, he took his heart in his hands, and with a sweet but grim tone, he set his eyes on the woman's, gently parting his lips, with a slowness never seen before.

—(Name)... I have to say that, with all the time that has passed, and all the times that you have offered me your help, I can say, with complete certainty —He whispered, trying to extend his words, proving that It could sound so sweet with her —, that you, the first person who supported me from the beginning, has managed to...

But before his unmistakable but tenacious act of confession was about to come to a close, with a separation of her hands from his, the woman spoke;

—I am married.

As rough as sandpaper running over someone's arm and as hard as a slap to the face, it was as if, for the first time in his long, undaunted life, something worse was in store for him; something up to three times worse than a life as a mortal. And that was, without a doubt, an entire life without her, a life, whether mortal or immortal, without someone who had appreciated him and brought about her redemption.

Nothing came from his lips, the wind gently moved his white hair loose and free before the world, the consolation of nature was so soft that it resembled the pity it offered to the poor man, and the little emotion—which until this moment moment was the security he felt about that woman's feelings—faded, or rather, mutated, mutated into a great, disgusting beast, into a rotten, ugly feeling so strong that its soft grip became more cruel, more subduing and that carried a bitter taste in the air that could be felt for miles.

That was the taste of rejection, and, more than anything, the feeling of hate. At this, he just sighed, his heart trying to adjust to the feeling of desolation stuck in his soul.

—So… married. —He whispered, his heart weighing even more.

He let go of her hand, her gaze was now lost, she was so empty, as if she had lost all meaning, as if her entire life had reduced all of her importance to this moment.

—Yeah… —She responded, her voice so rough and dry that it seemed like the sand was staying in his throat —..., I'm sorry.

That low, timid tone, sheltered in a shadow of horrendous chills, that scared look like that of a mouse begging a human for a piece of meat, god…. It was so tempting, so beautiful, so fucking tempting, that he had to gasp heavily, beating down the longing for her, screaming down that gross desire.

—You don't have to apologize —He said, —, I just hope you're happy.

He took her hand again, more gently now, carefully separating each finger. He leaned gently, and with a falseness incompatible with his current state, his lips touched the skin of her palm, pressing gently to give her the sensation of love that he so repressed in his heart, softened and rotten by such a level of sentimental illness, and when he walked away, a grimace of ill-painted happiness formed on his face.

—I hope thaat person give you the happiness you deserve... —He gasped for a second, erasing the word of possessiveness, without letting go of her hand —, dear (Name).

That afternoon he withdrew from her life, that fall was going to be trapped forever as the memory of her downfall, as the only fact that was really going to differentiate her life from that of any other human.

And that was her awakening; only when the season of orange dyes came to an end, the silk as sweet as a ripe dessert fruit accompanied by a funny company, the smell so pure that it would make any mortal sick, and a brilliant white that cleared the view so much that it resembled to be under the same sunlight. The bourgeois air that overflowed from the rustic, whitish-colored decoration seemed to make the new woman in the kingdom sick, and only at the moment of the man's accelerated footsteps outside the room did she decide to lie back on the bed, snuggling her head against pillow.

Not even the door was touched when he entered, and with a few silent steps, he leaned his lower body against the bed; the feeling of sweetness in his soul basked in glory at seeing her so rested, so immovable, so... sensitive to any look daring enough to rest on a figure so well structured, but so poorly cared for.

A smile spreads across his face, the smell of smoke and the uncontrollable heat of the fire still overwhelming him, even with all the hours that had passed.

But all those airs of pain, desperation and crude attempts to escape dissipated like a blizzard at the sight of the glimpsed body of such a peasant girl.

—So sweet... —He whispered, grabbing a stray strand of hair —.., and so sensitive.

He looked as enchanted as a bee on a flower, as addicted as a king to accumulating wealth, and as attached to that tenacious feeling as a womanizer is to flirting with any woman.

—I hope you wake up soon, my sweet (Name) —He gasped, tucking the lady's hair behind her ear —, you will enjoy life away from that town, and from... —Talon didn't continue, he just gasped with more heaviness —..., that useless one.

A few seconds later, aggressive footsteps, echoing from the cue crashing violently against the ground, and irregular panting accompanied by exasperating screams of complaints are heard outside.

—This damn idiot! —The goddess complained, her steps still sounding aggressive —, next time I won't let Morgana take that sword.

Hateful, that's how he could describe that woman who, just once, had managed to take everything from him.

The man looked so calm that such peace seemed inconceivable, and even a certain happiness was appeased in his soul, as if the approach of that woman meant a new objective for the man; a new way to show again to his beloved peasant how much he loved her, and even, if it were not for his current situation of having just returned to the kingdom of immortality, he would try to cut off the head of that goddess, solely and exclusively to remind her to (Name) the need for possession he had over her soul, and the power that existed between him and her.

Some aggressive knocks are heard outside the whitish room.

—I'll go take care of her, so you don't have to pretend to be asleep, okay? —He whispered, a kind smile trying to show her how much favoritism he had over her —. Make sure you don't make noise, my beautiful peasant.

Talon's body leaves the bed, and within a few seconds, the entire room; A new trial was about to begin, and now, there was great justification for it.

Bruh, I loved giving this guy a little story, I love him so much....

(He is literally my salvation from this horrible world, but he doesn't know it yet<3)

[layinginthedirtt]

[no-shxme]

Hey I’ll totally dm you off anon too if you wish, but I wanted to say your one Talon/Yasuo dragon au has really, really stuck with me because I have a huge weakness for Enduring Sword Talon (and kinda truth dragon Yasuo too he looks like a dilf) and I wanted to ask if you were at all comfortable with someone writing a fic partially inspired by yours? I didn’t want to write something that I knew could be read as a sort of ripoff of your fic without bringing it up to you. I would also absolutely credit you with the basic ideas from it. Anyway, I have read basically all your Talon fics bc I love him and I am always in need of Talon content and your writing is great, so thank you for all you do, even if you’re uncomfortable with me writing something like your fic <3

hey anon, thanks for reading all my fics. that makes my day. ;W; you can totally riff off that fic, provided you either use the inspiration option (in ao3) or credit me. (or both, idc). that being said, if you do end up writing it, feel free to let me know!! i check the talon tag about once a day bc i too am starving for talon content, and whatever you've got cooking.... I WANT TO READ IT (please ;w;)

also yeah truth dragon yasuo is sooo dilfy for sure. smth about that vaguely homeless appearance. mmmmmmm

[talonabraxas]

Archangel Samael - Angelic & Planetary Correspondences

Archangel Samael: Appears as a strong muscular young man wearing a tunic on the style of the Romans with a flowing cloak. He has long red hair tied into a pony-tail. In his right hand he hold a short sword, again in the Roman style. Some say on his breast is a bronze plate engraved with a pentagram.

Reputed to be the Angel of death & destruction who is often equated with Samael incorrectly, in the Book of Revelation this Angel is as Apollyon.

One of the Angels of the Apocalypse together with; Orifel, Anel, Zachariel, Raphael, Michael and Gabriel.

Ruler of the Fifth Heaven.

One of the Angels of Creation together with; Orifel, Anael, Zachariel, Raphael, Gabriel and Michael.

The Archangel Governs:

Magical Intentions: Physical courage and overcoming enemies. Projects related to war - success, prevention and cause. Disrupts friendships and causes discord. The energies of this day best harmonize with efforts of masculine vibration, such as conflict, physical endurance and strength, lust, hunting, sports, and all types of competition. Use them, too, for rituals involving surgical procedures or political ventures. Courage, Physical Strength, Revenge, Military Honors, Surgery and the Breaking of Negative Spells, Matrimony, War, Enemies, Prison, Vitality and Assertiveness.

Rulerships:

Police matters, war, sports, engineering, machinery, male sexuality, surgery, physical strength, courage, protection, help in overthrowing enemies, aggression,ambition, arguments, competition, conflict, destruction, energy, goals, lust, medical issues, sports, strength, strife, struggle, surgery, upheaval, victory.

Zamael, Angel of Mars - Talon Abraxas

[zombiecicada]

Running program and loading document.

Security bypassed.

Upload complete!

Document of specimen designated ‘Subject #42’

Case Number: 19.15.21.12

Date: REDACTED

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1: Subject #42’s Eyes

Subject #42 has large forward facing eyes, its pupils can easily expand and shrink to account for glare or near total darkness. The sclera of the eyes are vibrant yellow. This was later concluded to be due to having high levels of some bilirubin adjacent chemicals within the body.

Originally, it was assumed Subject #42 was suffering from liver failure, but further examination and blood tests revealed such was far from the truth. Whereas that much bilirubin in a red blood celled organism would be a sign of toxicity, because Subject #42 does not have red iron based blood, these high levels of bilirubin do not strip away or break down the blood cells. Instead of causing toxicity, it’s a natural antioxidant.

Subject #42’s eyes appear to have entered a near constant state of myosis, even in low lighting.

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2: Subject #42’s wings

Subject #42 has broad webbed wings that suggest an adaptation for long periods of non stop flight over vast distances.

Such an hypothesis was confirmed reviewing the observation notes of Subject #42 traveling vast distances prior to its capture. Subject #42’s wings were bound with cold iron cuffs shortly after its capture. While Subject #42 later outsmarted the attempts to restrict its ability to fly by simply using its abilities to levitate, the cuffs serve as a successful means to stop it from phasing through the walls of its containment unit.

The second finger of Subject #42’s wings are covered in small, aged scars along the whole length of the limb. The patterns and depth of the scars are consistent with wounds received from scraping against rocks and deflecting debris with the limbs. Subject #42 will swing its talons around like weapons with remarkable precision.

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3: Subject #42’s teeth and mouth

Armed with impressively developed canine teeth and a pointed, papillae covered tongue, Subject #42’s diet is primarily that of a hypercarnivore.

This has lead Doctor Cruce to hypothesize that Subject #42 might have been following the armed forces to feed on the bodies of the casualties produced by the conflict. Subject #42 does share some characteristics of scavengers, such as strong jaws and sharp teeth, but the metabolic cost of traveling such far distances, alongside its abilities, claws and the sword it was found wielding suggests that Subject #42 would likely or primarily have hunted opposed to scavenged. And yet, there was no reports of Subject #42 hunting anything prior to its capture.

The blue colouration comes from the subject’s blue blood, being copper based instead of iron based and highly oxygen efficient. An endurance test concluded Subject #42 can go almost four hours without breathing, suggesting Subject #42 comes from a low oxygen environment where it pays to be able to make the most of the little oxygen available. However, it seems to be perfectly fine in environments of standard 21% oxygen levels.

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4: Subject #42’s paws and forelimbs

Everything about Subject #42’s paws and forelimbs suggests it is a highly efficient climber. It has tough palms, strong claws for grip, an abundance of collagen within its body, and well developed tendons and ligaments.

A test concluded that with ease it can swiftly scale up vertical walls, alongside being highly oxygen efficient, it does not tire easily, leading Doctor Cruce to suggest Subject #42 might’ve evolved in a rocky, mountainous environment.

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5: Subject #42’s standard vision

A vision test conducted on Subject #42 determined it has remarkably clear long distance vision, able to spot small movements and small details from over several hundred feet of distance.

It can see a wide range of colours and in various levels of lighting.

Interestingly enough, it is badly nearsighted, seeming to have put all its points towards seeing very far instead of close up.

When Subject #42’s powers are activated, its eyes go fully lavender in colour and light up in a bioluminescent display.

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6: Subject #42’s ‘soul vision’

Finally approaching Subject #42’s bizarrely dare say otherworldly powers, hooking up various scanners and devices to Subject #42 to scan its brain Doctor Cruce discovered Subject #42 has an ‘alternate vision’ that she’s come to dub ‘soul vision’. When activated, Subject #42’s retinas stop perceiving light entirely, instead seeing a vast spectrum of the electromagnetic wave length that shows up to Subject #42 in various ‘colours’ and shapes.

While it took a bit of trial and error, it was discovered that people who have what’s been commonly dubbed a ‘soul’ will show up to this alternate vision as a figure with white eyes. Anything without a soul, be it people or objects, will be entirely invisible to Subject #42 during this time. It seems to be able to toggle back and forth between these two modes of vision at will.

Currently, it is unknown if the ‘colours’ that show up have different meanings. Subject #42 continues to show no ability and or interest in answering any questions that are asked of it.

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7: Further manifestations of Subject #42’s ‘soul magic’

Subject #42 is highly proficient in the use of its magic. It appears capable of instantly and immediately telling if something with a soul approaches it, even through walls and when its vision is restricted, suggesting the soul vision might be able to see through solid objects and see a remarkable distance away.

Alternatively, it may just be a sense that Subject #42 has passively.

When focused, this soul magic can form highly energetic lasers (resulting in biweekly maintenance required to Subject #42’s containment unit), an energy field around itself, and various other high energy attacks.

Subject #42 has a large quantity of energy within it, which it appears to get by steadily absorbing the lifeforce of everything around it.

Subject #42 has a large quantity of energy within it, which it appears to get by steadily absorbing the lifeforce of everything around it.

While it initially caused concern and almost led to the immediate order to terminate Subject #42, Doctor Cruce confirmed at the time that Subject #42 does not appear capable of doing this to such an extent that it would cause death or noticeable symptoms, quote ‘it's not taking from you anymore than the rate of you already naturally dying’. This statement was later retracted when, during a test, Subject #42 killed a test subject by simply touching it, examination to the body shows no wounds or signs of bodily trauma. It appears that Subject #42 instantly killed the fellow subject by removing its life force.

Doctor Cruce now believes that Subject #42 can indeed at any time rapidly and fatally absorb the life force of another being, but must come in contact with it first. For safety precautions, and yet another complaint from maintenance, Subject #42 was later moved to be held in stasis.

Up until that point Subject #42 had simply been very aloof and standoffish, during its final moments before being put in stasis it seemed to enter a state of hysteria, repeatedly calling out for something or someone.

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There are still many unanswered questions regarding Subject #42, such as the unnatural origins of its abilities and its origins in general.

Doctor Cruce’s conclusion is that it would benefit Nightmare Enterprises to make demonbeasts using Subject #42’s DNA.

However, she stressed a high deal of caution and time to conduct further research before proceeding with any attempts to make new monsters.

Subject #42’s highly unpredictable nature and abilities could lead to the creation of a monster far worse than it that could be impossible to contain that could become an unimaginable threat to the company, especially if it escaped and got into the wrong hands.

(END OF LOG)

[rraakkee]

newest absolutenutcase post perfectly encapsulates my feelings abt enduring sword talon

[thewisaaaaad]

Five becomes one.

this is Part 2 of "everything goes wrong" part one is here

GORE WARNING BTW. yknow, purgatory bishop levels of injury, so...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Lamb dodged out of the way in the nick of time, as Shamuras wickedly sharp arms stabbed into the stone where they were standing a moment before. coming out of the roll with a palm full of plasma, they launched their curse (it was not lightning. it would not hurt them, they were in control. they would not be tortured any more) to sear the spider's flank. Shamura screeched in pain, before summoning a large amount of bombs, which were barely avoided. The false lamb barely had any time to breath, mortal constraints preventing them from operating as they wished.

"Foolish puppet, you will not best me. you have not wielded your blade, let alone whet your blade in battle. My siblings still stand tall and yo-" the giant insect was interrupted by the deafening sound of metal shattering. A look of horror spread over Wars face.

It only grew with another loud smashing of chains. followed swiftly by another. Shamura was stunned for a moment, an opening that Hypnos gladly exploited to hit them right in their ugly mug with a concentrated beam of energy, having summoned Bruford, their skeletal aid, to coordinate the strike with a crippling slash delivered by his giant sword slicing off one of their legs.

The blast seared off half of half of the arachnid tyrants face, accompanied by a horrific shriek of agony as the invertebrate stumbled back on fewer limbs than they had a moment ago.

"You lowly vermin!" War screeched, lunging for the undead servant that had already fallen back, out of reach of their talons.

"Seems that the other Bishops had more sense than you." Hypnos mocked, a sadistic grin spreading wide over their face as their strange ally returned to their side, massive blade at the ready to deliver another strike.

The fear and panic in Shamuras eyes was delectable.

Hypnos was enjoying this battle. They were enjoying this a lot. As they avoided more attacks, they launched five darts of pure force to cover Brufords approach, the spider desperately trying to make distance between them. Which was exactly what Hypnos wanted.

While their boneheaded ally kept the arachnid busy, The Lamb charged a spell to end this fight in one fell strike. one that would bring their enemy SO much blissful agony, a small reparation for all the suffering that they and Narinder had gone through.

'It wouldn't be enough pain to make up for what they caused,' Hypnos thought, red bolts trying to escape from their clasped together hands, held in front of them to aim at the insectoid menace currently trying frantically to dislodge the animated bones clinging to their back. 'but it will be a start before they land in purgatory.'

fully charged, Hypnos let their hands bloom open like a flower, a beam worthy of the greatest storms snaked across the temple towards its target.

Shamura turned around at the last second, eyes wide. The lightning (make them suffer, rip through every part of their being, JUST LIKE THEY DID TO ME) struck War directly in the chest, staying connected, whipping about line a snake with fangs in its prey as it let loose a horrible buzzing, snapping noise, getting louder and louder as Hypnos poured more and more fervor into their curse.

Shamura screamed. They kept screaming for forty horrible, wonderful seconds. even when their lungs ran out of air, they kept screaming as their insides boiled it was wonderful Hypnos wanted more they wanted them to suffer to endure the pain tomakethemdancelikeadyingfishjustalittlelongertheyneededmore-

And all too soon, Shamuras chest burst open, spraying their steaming guts onto the floor like confetti. The monstrous body of the first bishop collapses to the floor in a pile of limbs, as the wretched body begins devolving back into its original state.

The death was accompanied by the shattering of the final chain, a death toll made from the shrill sounds of shearing metal, revealing a path to the afterlife that could not be barred by the gods any longer.

Hypnos turned towards the light, away from the corpse of their tormentor, unsatisfied but resolute in knowing they had completed their task. Hypnos dismissed Bruford back to wherever he came from with thanks for his service, and he bowed as he sunk into the earth.

The lamb stood before the gateway, steeling themself to deliver the news to Narinder that his eldest was dead. Ready, he took a step forward and-

A blast of phantom force struck them from behind, knocking them to their knees, their crown, inactive until now, shook and twisted on their head, nocking between their horns. Hypnos's skull felt like it was caving in.

As they struggled against the pain, they tried to get a look at their assailant, but only saw the still-warm corpse of war.

Which was slowly getting up, dragged upright like a puppet on a string.

"...You... Want to die again... So badly?!" Hypnos choked out, tears of blood streaming down their face, their skull groaning at the pressure, unable to stand against the pain.

"Dammed Poppet!" Shamura screeched, spittle and blood flying from their mouth, "All you needed to do was sit there, do NOTHING, and everything would have been perfect! You didn't even have to actually exist! And yet."

No... no that was not Shamura, Shamura never whined or whinged, the tone was too nasally, and they were dead the chain BROKE they should be DEAD-

"But no matter," whatever-it-was said, with the confidence of someone who never failed, who always had a backup plan, spoken through a shattered jaw, "this works to my advantage. My siblings can awaken and take their rightful hosts to rule this land as we once did, as we rightfully always SHOULD HAVE!"

The last syllable was punctuated by another blast of energy, amplifying the pain already crushing Hypnos, like a clawed hand trying to turn their brain into a raisin-

And then their eyes were drawn to the top of Shamuras head, where the purple crown still rested, glowering down at him. Shamuras bandages had fallen off during the struggle, revealing the cracks in their exposed skull, where the crown was seeping in.

It wasn't Shamura. It was the crown.

They had failed their promise.

They hadn't tried hard enough.

They could have saved-

Their thoughts were interrupted by screams that echoed through the caves of Silkcradle, the screams of gods-

"Can you hear that beautiful sound, Doll?" the crown nearly whispered, twirling the stolen body of War in a most ironic way, "The symphony of my siblings awakenings!"

Hypnos could hear it. The dirge of their failure. Long drawn out screams of the Gods who had placed their faith in them.

Leshys scream was of agony, and confusion, as their crown buried itself in their eye socket.

Heket roared as a beast fighting off a predator, a loosing battle, but not without fight. It would only bring more pain.

And Kallamar... poor Kallamar...

His fearful shriek was cut off the soonest. a small mercy.

"There's only one voice missing from this harmony," the wretched piece of jewelry sighed, bringing the rotting lamb back to the present with a crushing pinch of their brain, it was their skull, it wasn't betraying them it was never theirs-

"Be the doll that you are, and deliver my last sibling to their 'seat', won't you?"

A talon reared back, a blow that could not be dodged, the tattered lamb tumbling backwards into the light.

And all Hypnos could think about was how they had failed. Perhaps the fox was right.

"Never make a promise that you cannot fulfill, my laughter."

The crown trembled on their head, like an egg threatening to hatch, as the lamb tumbled through the fog, towards The One Who Waits, unable to prevent another mistake.

[kassandras-one-braincell]

Soma x Reader - Teeth and Talons

Kinktober 04: Marking [explicit]

Contains: rough sex, scratching, biting, blood-drawing

Word count: 951

Ao3 link here.

Men, minors and ageless/default blogs DNI. You will be blocked immediately upon interaction.

You nearly lost her. The dirt tracks of Cippenham drowned in blood, and hers almost joined the crimson tides. She cast her shield to the wind; by some fortuitous grace, no sword found its way through her flesh, save for a few shallow slices. Narrowly, she lived to tell the tale of her recklessness. And you were furious.

Telltale signs of grief stained Soma’s face as her longship docked, staggering through the currents with fewer oars. There was no glory in death. She confided that much in you through hollow tears. Her faith had choked, and with no divine comforts, only you could console her grief. Weeks of agony she endured, hidden from the ghostly eyes of her drengir, finally slipped through the cracks of her numb visage.

With a weeping heart, you held her. Venom threaded your thoughts, cursing her stupid, stupid habit of succumbing to adrenaline, but you bit your tongue. Yet your mind refused to concede to the love you held for her. The bitter memory of your clash merely days before she departed for Hamtunscire haunted you: you pleaded for her to listen to reason, that her iron-forged loyalties amounted to nought if she never lived to uphold them, that the battle was ill-timed and ill-prepared. The screaming, the tears. The coldness of the furs beside you as she feigned sleep in the bed once belonging to a man who forsook her good, honest heart.

Soma harboured anger, too. It gnawed at her, taunting her grief. A valkyrie’s embrace was nothing more than a lullaby for shit-scared warriors before untimely eternal rest. Good warriors died singing it. Her good warriors.

Desperate for mortal solace, your bodies found one another – as they often did after Soma returned from battle, although never with such saddened fury. You wanted to kiss her. To strangle her. To sew your skins together so she could never leave without ripping you asunder. To stake her to the bed, to sob into her chest. To be whole again.

Woeful rage seeped into the first kiss. You loved this woman – by whatever force brought her home to you, did you fucking love her – and feared the intensity of that love died with her comrades. Feared that your anger was a nail in that coffin. But you were blissfully wrong as Soma spat her pure, earnest adoration for the bond you shared through gritted teeth. You were tangible, unlike anything she had felt other than pain these past weeks, and she tested this palpability with harsh rakes of her teeth against your flesh. Deep, sharp bitemarks littered your thighs at your plea, for you wanted to share her pain. She gripped your hand until her knuckles turned white as she lapped between your thighs, hissing anguished I-love-yous against your cunt.

Your lips found hers again as you trembled through the aftershocks of your orgasm. The salt of your savour muddied with the salt of her tears. You pressed a map of saline kisses into her skin, sinking your teeth into every scar that littered her body until all you tasted was flesh. Bit her down to her hips, where you knelt to fasten a harness when she begged to fill you to completion. You spared her worn palms the burden of leather, for it was all they had known after a brutal eternity with an axe in hand.

Pleasure laced itself into every thrust of Soma’s hips, but what you both yearned for, more than breath itself, was unity. Closeness. She lay atop you, her chest flush against yours, bracing the weight of her body on her forearms either side of your head so as to not crush you, although you wished she would. Her ragged breathing grazed your ear, her face buried into the crook of your neck so deep that you could feel the indent of the scar on her cheek.

She rocked into you slowly, with a heartbreaking rawness. There was love to be made, and she made it with a beauty so grotesque, so tender yet cannibalistic that nobody other than you would understand.

Your heart waned as the muscles of her back trembled under your splayed fingers. Your lips latched onto the skin of her shoulder, the sweat licking her flesh bittersweet against your tongue. Breathy moans were muffled against her scars and ink, but their vibrations carried into her veins.

Soma tilted her head to kiss your neck, soothing over a bitemark. She adjusted the angle of her hips, grinding her cock into the tenderest part of your heat, something you never thought you would find yourself wanting amidst your blissful togetherness until it happened. A strangled sound left your throat as your grip on her back tightened, your nails digging into her flexing muscle harsher than intended.

You felt her grimace under the sting. Moaning out an apology, you massaged the faint crescent markings with your fingertips.

But she craved the pain of it. It was the safest pain she’d felt all month.

“Scratch me up, sweetheart,” she rasped desperately against your shoulder. “Make me fucking bleed.”

“Soma,” you whispered, tinged with worry. Some of the cuts along her back were newly healed. She had bled enough for a lifetime—

“Please.”

Seldom did Soma ask you for anything, never mind beg. And you refused to deny her. Not now, of all times.

You clawed. You clawed until the skin of her back stained the underside of your nails. And as paper-thin streams of her blood kissed the air, her strained moan into your neck clawed its way into your heart.

“I’ve got you, love,” you murmured.

Raw, bloody, with mark after mark carved into one another’s bodies, she knew.

[whats-in-a-sentence]

Song of Huma

Out of the village, out of the thatched and clutching shires,

Out of the grave and furrow, furrow and grave,

Where his sword first tried

The last cruel dances of childhood, and awoke to the shires

Forever retreating, his greatness a marshfire,

The banked flight of the Kingfisher always above him,

Now Huma walked upon the Roses,

In the level Light of the Rose.

And troubled by Dragons, he turned to the end of the land,

To the fringe of all sense and senses,

To the Wilderness, where Paladine bade him to turn,

And there in the loud tunnel of knives

He grew in unblemished violence, in yearning,

Stunned into himself by a deafening gauntlet of voices.

It was there and then that the White Stag found him,

At the end of a journey planned from the shores of Creation,

And all time staggered at the forest edge

Where Huma, haunted and starving,

Drew his bow, thanking the gods for their bounty and keeping,

Then saw, in the ranged wood,

In the first silence, the dazed heart's symbol,

The rack of antlers resplendent.

He lowered the bow and the world resumed.

Then Huma followed the Stag, its tangle of antlers receding

As a memory of young light, as the talons of birds ascending.

The Mountains crouched before them. Nothing would change now,

The three moons stopped in the sky,

And the long night tumbled in shadows.

It was morning when they reached the grove,

The lap of the mountain, where the Stag departed,

Nor did Huma follow, knowing the end of this journey

Was nothing but green and the promise of green that endured

In the eyes of the woman before him.

And holy the days he drew near her, holy the air

That carried his words of endearment, his forgotten songs,

And the rapt moons knelt on the Great Mountain.

Still, she eluded him, bright and retreating as marshfire,

Nameless and lovely, more lovely because she was nameless,

As they learned that the world, the dazzling shelves of the air,

The Wilderness itself

Were plain and diminished things to the heart's thicket.

At the end of the days, she told him her secret.

For she was not of woman, nor was she mortal,

But the daughter and heiress from a line of Dragons.

For Huma the sky turned indifferent, cluttered by moons,

The brief life of the grass mocked him, mocked his fathers,

And the thorned light bristled on the gliding Mountain.

But nameless she tendered a hope not in her keeping,

That Paladine only might answer, that through his enduring wisdom

She might step from forever, and there in the silver arms

The promise of the grove might rise and flourish.

For that wisdom Huma prayed, and the Stag returned,

And east, through the desolate fields, through ash,

Through cinders and blood, the harvest of dragons,

Traveled Huma, cradled by dreams of the Silver Dragon,

The Stag perpetual, a signal before him.

At last the eventual harbor, a temple so far to the east

That it lay where the east was ending.

There Paladine appeared

In a pool of stars and glory, announcing

That of all choices, one most terrible had fallen to Huma.

For Paladine know that the heart is a nest of yearnings,

That we can travel forever toward light, becoming

What we can never be.

For the bride of Huma could step into the devouring sun,

Together they would return to the thatched shires

And leave behind the secret of the Lance, the world

Unpeopled in darkness, wed to the dragons.

Or Huma could take on the Dragonlance, cleansing all Krynn

Of death and invasion, of the green paths of his love.

The hardest of choices, Huma remembered

How the Wilderness cloistered and baptized his first thoughts

Beneath the sheltering sun, and now

As the black moon wheeled and pivoted, drawing the air

And the substance from Krynn, from the things of Krynn,

From the grove, from the Mountain, from the abandoned shires,

He would sleep, he would send it all away,

For the choosing was all of the pain, and the choices

Were heat on the hand when the arm has been severed.

But she came to him, weeping and luminous,

In the landscape of dreams, where he saw

The world collapse and renew on the glint of the Lance.

In her farewell lay collapse and renewal.

Through his doomed veins the horizon burst.

He took up the Dragonlance, he took up the story,

The pale heat rushed through his rising arm

And the sun and the three moons, waiting for wonders,

Hung in the sky together.

To the West Huma rode, to the High Clerist's Tower

On the back of the Silver Dragon,

And the park of their flight crossed over a desolate country

Where the dead walked only, mouthing the names of dragons.

And the men in the Tower, surrounded and riddled by dragons,

By the cries of the dying, the roar in the ravenous air,

Awaited the unspeakable silence,

Awaited far worse, in fear that the crash of the senses

Would end in a moment of nothing

Where the mind lies down with its losses and darkness.

But the winding of Huma's horn in the distance

Danced in the battlements. All of Solamnia lifted

Its face to the eastern sky, and the dragons

Wheeled to the highest air, believing

Some terrible change had come.

From out of their tumult of wings, out of the chaos of dragons,

Out of the heart of morning, the Mother of Night,

Aswirl in a blankness of colors,

Swooped to the East, into the stare of the sun

And the sky collapsed into silver and blankness.

On the ground Huma lay, at his side a woman,

Her silver skin broken, the promise of green

Released from the gifts of her eyes. She whispered her name

As the Queen of Darkness banked in the sky above Huma.

She descended, the Mother of Night,

And from the loft of the battlements, men saw shadows

Boil on the colorless dive of her wings:

A hovel of thatch and rushes, the heart of a Wilderness,

A lost silver light spattered in terrible crimson,

And then from the center of shadows

Came a depth in which darkness itself was aglimmer,

Denying all air, all light, all shadows.

And thrusting his lance into emptiness,

Huma fell to the sweetness of death, into abiding sunlight.

Through the Lance, through the dear might and brotherhood

Of those who must walk to the end of the breath and the senses,

He banished the dragons back to the core of nothing,

And the long lands blossomed in balance and music.

Stunned in new freedom, stunned by the brightness and colors,

By the harped blessing of the holy winds,

The Knights carried Huma, they carried the Dragonlance

To the grove in the lap of the Mountain.

When they returned to the grove in pilgrimage, in homage,

The Lance, the armor, the Dragonbane himself

Had vanished to the day's eye.

But the night of the full moons red and silver

Shines down on the hills, on the forms of a man and a woman

Shimmering steel and silver, silver and steel,

Above the village, over the thatched and nurturing shires.

"DragonLance Chronicles: Dragons of Autumn Twilight" - Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

[macawbre]

[ Essar ] there is only so much dancing one ensnared by the tempest of raging blood can endure. his fabled essence, besieged by turmoil, wails for fervor, whilst the yearning of a weathered sword hand doth twitch vehemently for triumph!

"HOY THERE, HENRY the ACCURSED CROWMAGE, MASTER of MALEFICENCE-!" a dramatic sweep of the cape, followed by an extended hand. fingers splay like the talons of an eagle poised for battle, swiping through the air with ferocity. "i challenge thee to a game most EPIC! though, i must warn you of the MIGHTY POWER that rages within me like white-hot LIGHTNING! will you heed the clarion call of destiny, the summons to a battle most LEGENDARY, where valor shall script our tale for all to bear witness?"

Pfft. "HOY THERE, OW--ODIN the DARK BLOODED FIEND OF YONDER. HOW DOTH..." He paused for a second, tripping over the rapid-fire vocabulary Owain had loaded into his arsenal. His tongue clipped on his front teeth, bearing the heavy consonants with two left feet. "THY... uh... RAGING BLOOD hail?"

Grima below, this guy was a riot every time he came around the bend, nya ha ha! Lissa must have juggled him with a buncha coconuts when he was a wee babe or something. "OKAY! If destiny is calling my name, who am I to DENY it?"

Sprawling his hand over his face, he whipped a full-bellied cackle from behind the shutters. He dropped the "Owain, Dark Lord of Thunderville" theatrics and broke out the good ol' fashioned Henry hilarics. "I'm game if you are!! Don't got a butter knife on me, but I'll take a stab at it!"

Valor didn't suit him, but legends were made from the coat-tails of lesser men, anyhow.

"Sooooo~ What are your humours whispering to ya? I can't imagine it's anything good, hehe."

[aurelion-solar]

Immortal Journey Kayle, Zed, Shyvana, Enduring Sword Talon & Prestige Splendid Staff Nami in Wild Rift 🌸

[infernal-general]

Fight talk on the dash *cough* @metaladam made me FINALLY write this post I've been wanting to in years.

War machine.

Rozália is an absolute, devastating all rounder when it comes to combat. Versatile in every way possible, if her hand to hand combat was to fail, she can fall back on weapon proficiency, if the situation gets worse she can spike it with her powers. If everything isn't enough, then comes the Hellfire as last resort of mass & raw destruction. She is extremely dangerous because she is both trained and by now in tune with her power.

Stats:

8'5 (260 cm) & weighs around 350 lbs (160 kg) of muscle and bone

15 years of general training regarding warfare & combat

Approximately 7-8 years of martial arts training

Honing, perfecting those skills over 170 years.

Can comfortably lift up to 400-460 lbs (180-210 kg), up to 660 lbs (300 kg) with effort; she doesn't risk going higher than that

Close combat: You don't want that to happen. One would logically think she is relying on her strength, instead the trick lies in acrobatics. Which brings to the first of many terrifying facts: she is fully in control of her body and bodyweight to be a taekwondo acrobat. Her physical strength isn't increased by any spell/magic/deal; she simply adapted to her height and weight in the afterlife with multiple training styles & heavy emphasis on own bodyweight training. Imagine the force her punch/kick can carry. Improvisation, adaption play a large role as well, she's versed in more than enough styles to mix them together as counter. No problems regarding endurance either, she's trained to participate in active warfare 24 hours straight, then oversee the damages, deaths, wounded, quick repair plans. Pain tolerance. That one stems from her terrific reaction regarding any substance; she hasn't taken any painkillers since the incident happened, worried how they would be amplified by her flawed system.

That left her growing almost comfortable with being in pain, making her tolerate almost ridicously high. And if it wasn't enough, that combined with her healing factor on steroids if the injury isn't from something angelic.

Her anatomy is perfectly designed for close combat: her feet are covered by armored plates with openings to allow desired mobility and flexibility with talons to not only bruise but shred with kicks:

Her horns are sturdy, sharp, tilted forwards and she totally impaled a few people before, making retaliating blows difficult if not outright dangerous to land

Her blood is liquid hellfire, so even if one succeeds in wounding her...well they are still getting the worst of it. A purely physical fight against her is rigged from the start due to her anatomy.

Still, there was one draw in her career: In the Viper club, where using magic in the ring is forbidden, against her own relative @phoenixborn who was generational traumatized by her existence & wanted to defeat her own literal demon haunting her since childhood. It wasn't because they were related and she let her off easy. But because Cindy, although not as durable but just as slippery and skilled, utilized joint locks and breaks. So Rozy couldn't really continue with a broken left knee and right elbow, healing would've taken too much time without her powers so...a very bregrunding draw. It wasn't the pain stopping her mind you. But the imbalance.

Armed combat: Almost as versatile as with her body and mindful of her surroundings, almost anything can be a weapon. That being said, her usual arsenal consists of her twin hussar swords (modeled after Polish winged hussar sabres), one blessed, one filled with and forged in Hellfire. Although traditional fencing isn't exactly how her style would be described, she still excels in as her own style with a sturdy base taught since early childhood.

Five short daggers with their grip, infused with her hellfire, therefore she is able to control the blades with her mind; faint crimson trails show the daggers' path. A silent, unexpected truly assassin weapon.

4.5 feet tall (54 inches), -not counting the hidden blades at the ends- recurve bow to cover long range. It also has a tiny scope above the grip which can be flipped out in case of using it very long range. The quiver of hellfire infused arrows is strapped to her right thigh; she is ambidextrous but prefers to handle this weapon with her right. Draw weight around 60-70lbs (27-31 kg). Perfectly able to handle heavier draw warbows as well as crossbows.

Thanks to her upbringing and the revolution Rozy is a great esquetarian, capable of precise archery from horseback along with the usual hussar techniques.

Modern guns, rifles, handguns are weapons she actually has a struggle using and would rather avoid. Along with more difficult/unorthodox weaponry such as zhua-iron claw designed to pull someone, off horseback, swordbreaker long daggers & hook swords. That she doesn't have enough experience with handling and/or effectively counter her own arsenal.

Hellfire: may god give you strength. You will need it.

[notmuchtoconceal]

–

the priestesses danced – in the baths built atop the springs down the bluffs behind city hall. the expanse of some bay hill within a block– well-eclipsed by the funnel of strata which teethed the cliffs. down the plaza -- beneath the canopies of streets, there shone another city gleaming in the gold of an artificial sun. cavern ceilings painted azure as the sky.

the priestesses danced – so that that sleep may overcome the carnal in men, those beasts who dwelt in the land above, with the fallen sisters they had taken as claims, who had become again the beasts they had been as girls, in the wild and untamed woodlands that were the brush they could not oil or tame – the talons they lacquered only to strike with priapism by venom. they danced and danced – and some harmonies met the men meek of heart, whose ears were open to the hornet honey of their rhythms :-- for heavy of soul, transmutations erupted in every atom of their skulls. arcs of gold convulsed through leaden filament. 

~^..^~ ( o ) ~^..^~

.     ^!    .^.   !^ `

from behind the columns, walled gardens in the shade kept the night as day. stars gleamed down the sleek of the fiberoptics of their gowns, and constellations latticed the forms of flowers and mosaics neither geometry nor mesh, for the wall was itself the night which emanated out the radiance of day, bound in brickwork which was not there, for they walked between the lime and were grazed not by the mortar, but passed suspended above the grounds in grace, as each were only women in the flesh, feet fawnlike and pale in painted toes :-- upon the floor, they moved, ankles clinging to the gossamer of their gowns, swanlike and downy muscular as the brine around them was sultry as the sea winds before a storm – for they knew again their prince, abundant in his horn and his cups, helmed in the shell that was his light :-- for he was only the light which resides in the shell, the conch which held the voice, and could be whispered into most sweetly, for you heard back only the tide.

cpt. drottin knelt to the empty plinth at the center of the dais from which they emanated -- around him, shone spotlights of seven colors :-- and in the shapes which overlapped him, he was masked. crowned and cut in twain by a laurel of peacock feathers shearing quartz vibrations in jagged discordance through the brawny and striated skeletomuscular webbing of himself :-- lattices of meat and fat studded rock-salt, for the hunks which fell from the gelatin of his subtle flesh flopped about with the elegant twirling fins of a betta fish pooling in black and yellow bile creeklike with reflections of shed arteries dripping opalescent man-roe fermented on the pressed caps of his spit-polished boots. ankles twisted as what bound them tightened together round the rising equis, the stalk of some trunk so iron-rich its tendons could press toward the hide which trapped it, for we knew the beauty of this moment and all moments – a terrace of blood rubies now with a drop of pearl. for his thread, the sterling silver of his chastity, cut him to ribbons with pangs of love. 

- this sword – this sword which is mine by right – which in my hands would bifurcate me to the pure action :/: re/action of my poles – without it, i am merely a man. condemned to love woman – for only by her may i know myself, as i remain merely a beast, and with the ecstasy that is the agony of my inheritance, and the agony that is the inheritance of my ecstasy – i endure my burden, though i will never draw the blood of man, condemned as i am, to eternal war by virtue of being them!   

the knights of the labrys – who kept their sisters sharp of tongue, and their brothers sharper in striation -- by lance by prick and cut, by the butt of handle and cleaver, banged the horns that were the handles of their polearms in percussion -- tapping twice and thrice across the stone.

ALL IS

BI

SECT

ED 

he writhed and he lashed – suspended in the nowhere state of himself.

a burning coming over the black winds of the sea which men could not see, he kept solemn as the lights paned over him – still in supreme concentration to the sheathe which rose drop by drop within the stone.

ALL IS

BI

SECT

ED 

the blows of the horns crashed through him as surf across a rocky shore. the descent of the first note -- as though unfurling -- lapped up the hairs of his neck, to caress him tip to notch of top of skull.

/ . ( ( ( o ) ) ) . \

`// . \ \ | / / . \\`

the repenters of the priesthood, our brothers of blacked eye – knelt with the men of drottin's guard. in paisley and escherprint, as they divided themselves down the midline by sigils and prayers, so did his guard unbutton their shirts, to expose the split-gashes burst open from the vigor of their movements – to be, here and now, resutured.

ALL IN

BI

SECT

IONS

they knew not their mothers, for they had been cut from them. as they were not born, they could not die. without death, they had no and infinite time – for men they were, and yet of women, not.  

ALL IN

BI

SECT

IONS

- i who am untethered, am wrapped up in myself. i who am untethered, wrap up all in my menagerie! around every wall, i remember where i walk and where i have begone! i walk the streets as myself, and i walk the streets of myself. what infinite turns you behold, what infirmaries you endure, and what brickovens you bemuse, on some further rotation you know you have gone nowhere. i am sorry – for there is no way out! you are stuck as time has stuck – as my wanderings have amazed the city! 

for though nine, she remained the spider –

- and i still merely the fly.

for he offered himself –

she drank of him,

and was devoured. 

… hey. you're pretty. hope you'll only slurp me with all the elegance befitting of a taureen fulla fine handcrafted strawberry lemonade?

.^. -?o?-o- /O\-o- 7o7- .^.

 .                 \   / ++

o>\_ *7&?oOo?%7 …\&lt;^

 .                3 . e =

*7* ^\/^ *?* q )7( v/\v `?`

.                  8 8 --

~?~ )?( v\|  b  |/v *7* ^7^

take me to that beautiful place ~

where nothing need be gross ( )

& even fewer euphemistic O == O

–

cpt. drottin.

he was beginning to show up with some consistency. you wouldn't know if gentle dabbings would remain enough to keep him off.

- um, major *****( . . . . . ) sir.

for fuck's sake, kid.

don't let him call you that. you sound like a cereal box mascot.

- um, i'm sorry, maj. ******* – oh my god, if that was unbleep'd it'd sound so fuckin goofy. you're honestly so try, you never have to camp!

he was more than trustworthy – to always draw attention to the breach.

- she should just rewind, pretend none of that ever got carried through!

only in your infinite editorial power – could you endure the shrink-wrap leaden weight of his antinatalist agenda.

- bro, i am 100% pro-baby, bro. they increase the overall net rate of gross entropic waste and consumption in the world. we need to affirm life/affirm death by creating it for the sake of the sakeless, bro. ... embrace descent/chaos as the ravishment of civilization wherin man is an eruption as any other :-- the cloud fated to swell, crest and collapse, settling back into but a mere holy pablum of fossilized substrata, debited to be mined and compacted with the trash of those future generations we have sired to spit on us as we've been sired to spit on our own with the laurels of our leaky cockheads :– drink of my dick drippings in a roe goblet of fibrous microplastics, bro. harvested of the gelatin of me, they've been marketed for the spoil! drink of me and be one with me, as i am the proof of what's in the pudding – the chastity, loch and keys!

the priests of the labrys he bent to his will – weighed with snow in gnarled poses, heavy as the boughs of spring – craned to him to blow mountain horns through the handles of their hollow axes.

- i have not spoken to brother laika in some time! what rulers echo in every void utterance! the pleasure has most certainly been his!

the rhubarb hues swollen beneath the sterile goatiness of his face – slick with his sweat, some idiot aureole played as his hair unfurled from the gilding of its honied comb – a kaleidoscope of arms and suckers in the brass-edged prongs of a heliacal crown which was his hair blowing in the breeze of the slate blue day – metallurgical in the covalence of its bonds, the day overlooking the white of the plaza, yellow ivory by ash of gold.

- sir, your words move me as only cpt. schreibermachen's do – have you, by some iota of probability unpaid, perchance to've read him?

your fine, well-read brother was no doubt manhandling some of cpt. hlaford's exquisitely tortured thoughtcrimes of passion against sin and country before sicking you with this routine unexpected visitation.

- i can't tell if you are making fun of me to my face, or making fun of joey to my face, or making fun of joey to your face, or revealing your deepest insecurities by highlighting what you can conceal only by not even bothering to brother – wow, sir. you really do have a lot going on, huh?

yeah, you'll tell me.

- it's no wonder – cpt. joey admires you so much and is always telling people how great you are, even if i don't always see it? to me, it's like -- you seem needlessly cruel, distant, and full of terror and awe, but um – somebody needs to be afraid for you, sir. that is a beautiful and perfect thing for you do for someone. be afraid for them and never let them know what's wrong, or just hug them – hug them and never let them go cause you can never express in words what they mean to you. no matter how many or how few you've got, you'd never be able to express that in words, for the issue is not of quantity or of quality, but structure :--and how could anyone ever know what they mean to us when we fail them by failing to let them understand what we feel?

 he had no idea. he had all the ideas. 

- i'm sorry, sir – i don't want to hurt your feelings with the stupid shit i say aimlessly, but um – i feel like there's no way to be around you without hurting you, and if i can understand this, while you have to live it daily, there's no need for me to elaborate upon it by the route idiocies of my own word choice, since you've been living your own life and know your own pain, i suspect it's still comforting on some level, even if it's equally or infinitely more comforting for me, to say this to you – cause i know i have to hurt you to comfort you, and the comfort in some sense outweighs the hurt, but um – if cpt. haruspex were rambling this long, he would attempt to return to some previous point to give the illusion that progress is being made, but he always feels like he's talking to a brick wall cause he isn't good at reading social cues? i honestly can't tell?

... cpt. haruspex is deeply confusing and i don't always know if i should be listening to him, cause sometimes he seems really confident, but then sometimes he seems really shaky, and i'm like – which one is it gonna be today? he makes me feel real insecure and that makes me wanna go towards him? cause i'm like – am i gonna need to take control of this idiot? is he gonna hurt himself again – oh my fuckin god. if i let this idiot hurt me, i would rip his fuckin head off – it would be brutal. i would tear off both his arms, crush his skull – tear his fuckin guts out and fuck the hand-ripped ceasearean taint-pussy i installed just to fuckin smash up – holy fuck. it sounds so fun, i kinda wanna risk my career and my reputation by doing it in public. right here. right now. – but um . . .

count to three.

… yeah  …?

I  I I    I  I  I 

 … i'm not cpt. haruspex, so i don't think i need to go there, but um – it seemed relevant anyways, so i will? even though it's not relevant anymore since i rambled on so long, but um – to avoid it now would reek of anticlimax, so i ought? ... yeah? keep talking?

    I    V

… it's the entropy as a necessary process to take us to our inevitable fate of finality, sir? i can't ever give as much care as i can give you pain, but by bearing my pain, you're increasing the net amount of care in the world, even if you can only take so much for yourself? as though the older you get, the more care you're entitled to give, or at least the less care you're entitled to receive, for care is a limited thing given, and if you're still failing, even at your age, you're understood to have poorly optimized the care you've been given – and while it is true that the inherent care a person can receive is finite, some bodies are deprived in such a way that care cannot be properly optimized, or the care they'd been given not enough, or for that same care to have been rendered toxicified. everyone wants to care, but few people care about how they're doing it?

…

though in old sage, sir – care is understood to be wholly reciprocal, for an elder mind is at its peak when nourished by the wisdom of experience. no valorous young flesh would harm a frail soul or allow it to come to harm, for what we are is what we know

... and all we'll ever know is but our heads!

…

at least long last as we have heads to know.

     F V

- IS THAT FAH-VEEE OR WERE YOU SAYING AND WRITING FIVE AT THE SAME TIME

don't fuckin scream at me, kid.

already wanna rip your neck out and dance in your blood.

- um, i'm sorry, sir. i'm really ashamed at how i behaved just now?

that's a start.

- um, i should be ashamed of how i am all the time?

he could read into things.

he learned it from cpt. schreibermachen, no doubt.

- i'm sorry i get you so wet, sir. i know i'm a real she-braggart and a he-harlot and worse than any woman, but like, um – cpt. schreibermachen learned it from watching you. 

kid, cpt. schreibermachen thinks being complicated is a virtue. the locomotion of moving parts fascinate him, for he is inherently dense and slow-witted. he is the worst indulgence of the materialist sciences, holy shit – he reads like jittery molecules in a beaker crudely attempting to escape their own dead, intellectual anti-atomism by furiously stroking their mitochondrial clitties. synthesize some meta-nature, joey. you can do it. you can improve upon the vast incomprehensibility of the perfection of all creation by breaking it apart into cancerous, bifurcated deadweight, scattered about the apartments of your reeking barnyard bate cave drooling more weird affection over incomprehensible tomes like all the other assorted grotesqueries you fetishize because you're disgusted by your own slight, deformed, nubile lil fuck-bod. yeah. nibble on some gristle and chicken bones, you ever-fertile regenerative godling. go leave Pomo Prometheus Bound Up and Unmod, cute lil Werther White Chocolate. lick you off my fingers, see how good you melt in my mouth. go on! believe in yourself, kid. you can fuckin cast off the yoke of physics and radically recreate matter in a shape more approximate mind. it's all on you. nobody wants to rut the narrow taper of your bony, alluring lil bitch-breeder hips, holy fuck. nobody, joey. nobody is thinking of seeding your needy lil blonde, blue-eyed boycunt cause you are so fucking asking for it prancing around being such a pretty lil nerd all the time. 

- wow.

vv ( o ) vv

- it may take me some time to process all this, sir. i am not like – a one hour photo, or even, um – a memento of a log ride you can pick up in fifteen minutes for the image needs time to solidify into form? it may take me years to reconcile the every implication of your every stated utterance against the pre-existing biases of the situation as i understand it? you know i'd never be able to tell joey any of this because he's so, um – like in awe of you and i'm so in awe of him, i'd never have it in me to even so much as hint to a word of this, unless it's like, um – one day joey found himself so weighed down by such terrible pain, that to continue to believe in you would only hurt him further, and i would have no choice but to um – risk hurting him by telling him the truth, though it would both hurt me to hurt him, and hurt me to be deprived of him, but neither could ever be as hurtful as letting him hurt pointlessly by languishing in a lie? for this was my duty – to increase the net care in the world by telling the truth to my brother and dearest light of my soul, for nothing would be so painful to me as to deny myself my love's true freedom and living valor?

he was already writing the script.

you'd need to make some common-sense suggestions.

- um, you're ruthless?

the way you hurt people and pretend like you're caring?

you are all-knowing. you see things as they are.

your insight cannot be disavowed. 

- um, it was not my place to question you, sir. i understand this now.

you have been a good joey, cpt. drottin. you may lean forward and receive the head-pat you so desperately crave by being stupid enough to approach your commanding officer.

- you're sweet, sir. you're fair, just, alluring, and tolerant?

don't push it, kid. one of us is still a smut-pushing propaganda monster.

- you have made cpt. schreibermachen everything he is, for he is all you could never be – and he adores you for you are all he could never be, though this is shameful for you both to bare, as though both of you crave and adore the other, neither of you want nor respect yourselves. 

 his happiness mattered more than yours. he would not die this day.

- just gotta hear it once a morning, sir. once more in this semi-paradigm of our infinite solar orbit, you have gifted me the gift of immortality!

tomorrow you will bring with you a basket of apples. they will be gold as the sun, placed in a hand-wreath of wicker, on a bed of pine fronds lightly syruped by their own sweetness. huckleberries shall be included.

- i know the ones you like, sir. i may or may not surprise you with a different hue or even a different shape all together, and you'll never know if i fucked up or was discreetly attempting to slow-drip the lifeblood of variety back into your life because i love you?

piss off, drottin.

- do you mean get lost and never found?

you mean open up. 

–

as seeds scattered in the wind, they wanted not, yet wanted only to die.

a whole brood came of age, spurning the ovipositor which laid them. without contradiction of their wants, the falsities of the false world into which they were born, they knew they themselves to be expendable – people who should have never been, sold now and always, to people who weren't worth it, on land which was not theirs :-- serving only the machinery for which they had been bred to be slaughtered.

the carpenter removed his hood – he was but (a) baal by kinder words. 

he sang to them. in harmonic resonances of love, he sang to them. by the grosses, from bridges which rose in honeycombed towers, drone embryos flew without wings – into the traffic of tankmen to be torn under wheels pulverized & dragged – limbs flash fried a second here and there, wasted :-- untold countless unclaimed prophets squandered. 

((( o )))) without the lubrication of blood to properly anoint at proper variables – the machinery chugged and sputtered to a halt.

the streets caked with viscosities of skin and sinew – gelatin of bone and meat pumped by arterial sepsis. clean. pure.  sears of gunmetal perfumed on tongues. product rotting on shelves without plot or purchase, writhing with fresh and effervescent life, singing the songs of flies.

the structures collapsed by the rings of their stumps, pumping always lead in their sutures, where true necessity reigned, hollow hearts followed hollow heads – as all were as gourds in the wind.

a hedge trimmer to a bonsai, an octopus to a cutlet. with ice to a sickle, whole densities of shoulder were shed in the shaving. another turn of the waltz – into place, they fell, and into space, they rose.

deprive themselves of them – for they have spoilt their generations, every vivisection floating like debris, around the miracle of these pollutants.

~!~

;w L

L o :

–

cpt. haruspex's tongue would slip when his hands would slight him.

cpt. haruspex's words would fail him – when by the slight of glance, his eyes would fall upon cpt. schreibermachen sipping coffee. 

- who the hell he thinks he is, mates? that prick joey – loungin around like the world were a lounge! a lounge none feel comfortable loungin in cause it's so pretty, fastidious, scented, polished and leatherclad, that you know by matrices of implication too multitudinous and subtle to be processed in the moment -- but which nonetheless register as a visceral impression which haunts your nervous system for days to come – that this ain't any lounge, oh no. this is joey's private lounge.

... joey owns the buildin! you think this is some neon-lit quarter-abyss a few inches underground where eyes glidin past cobwebs caressin brick and mortar in the granite womb of your senses, you bare by curtains bathed in hot pinks and reds, some scanty-clad flesh rapturous in the throes of intoxication, no -- calm it down, mates! joey's here. joey's gonna make things happen! joey's gonna change the atmosphere!

/// peer back into the dark, this is no charnel bar where the scent of grape concentrate and chemical burns lingers more on your eyes in the hyper-clarity of terror turned rapturous unrevealing, no!

... the darkness is gonna quiet, mates! gonna feel the heady scent of the froth fill your nostrils in the dust of some gilded mornin where you stretch by the sun and get a workout in swimmin round the archipelago before dawn. eyes lingerin on his bronzed and milky body – his scarred, his burnt and shrapnelled body – the delicate pale hairs casting him in a gossamer of spider silk by firelight you could remember no night but what you spent with him, but now it's time to work... so many distant memories. hangin round every day though you could look back and there he'd be. hand on your shoulder, so uncharacteristically warm, as his skin'd just withstood the fire – and now he's pullin up his chair, mates!

... right at the center recess! right round the big table! oh, he's here early! nobody else is here yet! let's just take fuckin control of everythin, why don't we? y'know – if brux got in the cafe (it's always a fuckin cafe with joey – can always hear the music! so effortless is the moment twisted, i can even hear the music!) – if brux got in the cafe early, he'd go slink off to some secret corner where it was extra dark and he'd giggle to himself cause nobody'd find him. brux'd really be able to dawdle and pretend to work back there, but no! joey don't wanna dawdle and pretend to work!

/// joey wants to be kept looked at so he can keep the illusion of keepin busy by actually bein busy, cause ya can't fuckin fake it in front of an audience! joey don't have the courage to live a life of solitude, so he needs people to go up to him while he's readin or writin or sippin espresso with his adorable and eminently breedable boyfriend -- and sometimes they glance at each other with eyes so tender ya wonder how laik don't melt like bunny chocolate on the spot and leave a big brown butthole-stained streak all o'er the dazzlin emerald-upholstered leather chairs or reflective teakwood table – and ya always feel like you're interruptin somethin special cause their love is so crystalline and perfect and your heart throbs every time you're privileged to witness it, then ya realize love like that only happens to certain special people and yer not one of em, so ya wanna either die or murder everyone in sight, and that is so perfectly natural and normal a feelin and everyone feels it and anybody who says otherwise is a liar like joey, who only wants to sip coffee and read books in public so ya feel like you're botherin him when ya need to talk, even tho he's fundamental to so many operations, he should be fully present at every moment, totally focused on you, cause – y'know.

/// you're totally focused on everyone else at every moment – least they could do's repay the favor! instead he's spittin out some zealous spiel all hopped up on genie beans and it's like – oh, all the men in the room are hooked on his every word! they're either all totally motivated or eager to hop in and he handles every interruption so gracefully and with such verve, it makes ya love him even more, and ya wish ya had somethin to say, but you're much too in awe of him ~ you're just thankful for any second he could spend wit you – so magnanimous is every second you spend wit him, you could feel nothin but total remorse which is the realization of the futility of life that the time you spend with him could never mean but a fraction of what his time means to you – not only cause there are so many of you out there, vyin for his attention, but because you got nothing to offer him. he has so much more. he's always had more. you could never measure up, even if ya had a trick ruler and his spine was ripped out – scribblin away at another one of his masterpieces, his popular fodders, his private letters! it's bad enough his sloppies look better than most of ya polishers, but his handwritten lil notes make ya feel elevated over ivied edifices by babblin streams as sunlight ripples cross the banks of the thames, and you respond with loike – shit ya coulda sent through a telegram, so it's loike... gosh, do i want him to keep writin me, or do i want him to know all the affection he showers on me is wasted? it's almost more polite to make him hate me so he knows he's not wastin his time? i could never repay him his every special moment – let him know how beautiful i think he is. every second i spend with him feels like accruin a debt i could never repay, so every moment i spend is consent to the slavery of his affection. with him, i could only ever be more grateful, more thankless, more blessed and needy with every moment he looks at me – and that is entirely his fault for bein so brave and manly and smart and beautiful in a way which highlights even his arrogance to a mute rhapsody of pure motion! he makes even his ugliness beautiful! how cruel and dismissive he is so constantly cause he knows he has leverage on ya, and it's loike – you bastard. you bastard. i hate you. i hate you. you think it was you. always you. the only reason you wanna get all hopped up with the men drinkin coffee and readin books is cause you want brux to hate you. this ain't about them. this ain't about you. this ain't about the codification of an ethos or aesthetic into culture under the organic process of a group of individuals rationally consenting to follow a bold, charismatic, and affable leader! no. this is about brux.

/// brux knows you're thinkin bout brux

just as much as brux is thinkin bout you! 

cpt. psychoraggia – whose shaved and heaving muscle-tits cpt. haruspex longed to fondle, yet refrained, for he was a bloodthirsty killbeast of fame and valor with countless recordings of backroom maulings widely distributed and pawed over – became uncharastically syllabic.

- brother brux, with all due respect – i think cpt. schreibermachen likes to drink coffee while reading books because they keep his mind sharp, since more pressingly – he enjoys stimulation which is psycho-chemical in a way we don't understand cause we think with our dicks.  

cpt. haruspex – would not cut :-- though his tirade yearned for blood.

- brother jacek, i like you. i like your big, fondleable muscle-titties. you don't know joey the way i do. you won't ever know joey the way i do. you're a big silly kitty and ya need to have your mane ruffled. i wanna jump on you and play with your big bashful pecs which the frenzy of my imagination renders furry and peachy, though i know them to be exfoliated, razor-dredged and olive, you prickly lil lionfish. you are a silly, silly killbeast and i think you're such a nice boy! gosh, i wanna kiss you. gosh, i wanna kiss your face. you are so handsome, it is painful. i want to die when i look at you. please bash me head in with a rock and lick the brain matter out of the prolapse between me eyes as you lap up me tears for iodine as i die. brother jacek, you are what is most precious!

cpt. psychoraggia understood at once – that no more conversation was viable. for a moment he thought he ought bow his head before abandoning cpt. haruspex for hours unknown, then figured this would pay too much deference to things spoken undeserving of deference, and so decided – yeah, fuckin walk away. don't ask for the encore.

he'll read things the way he wants, with his shitty, limited vocabulary.

thank our brothers who are the stars there are poetically-minded and ribaldly affable men like cpt. schreibermachen around to show you that things don't have to be so fuckin miserable all the time.

–

ions descended on the storm winds – the salt brine reeked of the sea. the anvils of the heavens hammered on the hindlegs of the cloudbursts. red skies straddling the seawall of night and morning were the clappings of thunderheads escalating in pitch to collisions of rapture.

- as though claws at the sky, dear brothers and fair sisters! ~ as though the strike of each bolt were embers which raked the sweet-caned peaches of creamery clouds, cotton candy on ice milk, the grilles of a bleaker cabaret :-- some plastic diner you wallowed to squeal in vinyl!

behind drottin's eyes, the horizon of a parting thigh – as the sea bisected the sky. compartments of him heaved, bashed against the glass dulled by manhandlers hand-mangled by handlebars. delicate precision slotting them into place along quarter-turns on tilts. pushed inward and bent so a pivot became a joint. sutured along a seam. the heat of some torch which was only the tempest of his eyes – the eye of his own storm. hourglass sands by molten glass. two cold fires welding the horizon to your eyes by some distant light or more distant darkness, leading the arc of his vault to the void infinity beyond, where no light could ebb away.

this memory which would never ebb away – of the sterile rooms where he knew himself as only streaks of aquarium glass; where he saw himself as more and simply less, the seagrass more than a crown -- laureled though he was, in scales of every color -- beading globules white as teeth or as eyes or still-soft flesh, beading pearls as he was elephant ivory, though not the shrapnel of a tusk – dripping the fresh, crisp mead. 

- from joey's heart, i have fermented – the rhizomes of the lotus of his heart. a chocolate cherry – spurned by dingbats and arrowheads, yet no fortune too outrageous – for this age i am iron as i armor myself in dross, when the armor ensconces what remains imperishable by right of what preserves -- as i am myself salty enough to burn ulcers off tongues, lay your beef before me expecting a lashing and i will give what i lap, as i shall no doubt remain, for i paige by the discount ~ all which is orderly in immolation is present in me – for should i fail to guild by this honey i chug, i shall be knot a man known for eras beyond me :-- but will be simply a waste, a man in his box, priority shipping overseas – another garish antique of the hammer head and nailing hand, wrought steelmen coming on cadavers in kiddielands unmembered, this rickety coffin still shambles for me. i keep it suspended by the whim of what lay alive, to hobble still more on stilts to a dawn beyond dusk?

cpt. haruspex met him once –

theirs was a bond which chained across time.

- brux, bro – i uh ... hey.

you wanna go to sleep with me, bro?

bet it'd feel good?

gettin stoned and curlin up with me while i sleep.

let you nuzzle my beard?

yeah?

feel good?

huh? 

[no-shxme]

my eyes hurt too much to look at google docs so instead i made a maybe controversial tier list of talon skins using @lcathia 's list.

extra opinions below, just cause:

high noon and enduring blade are so smooth to use in game (enduring especially, even if the model's a bit crusty) but most of all i love how thematically it gives talon so much room to breathe. like the amount of kicking off points and extra headcanons both these skins spawn for me is soooo good and there's so much story potential. i like high noon a little more (cowboy bias) but enduring screams autism to me so i love them both. (also enduring sword talon can be mashed together with obsidian dragon sett so)

withered rose talon is a smooth skin but his splash looks way too much like kayn for me. and his thematic is a little shallow. in game he's cute though and he's got that one chroma with the collar. dragonblade talon is underrated and (most) of his chinese chroma splashes are sooo cute.

talon blackwood is cute in and out of game but i don't like fantasy/dnd much. (scream)

ssw talon is just a stand-in until talon gets an actual modern verse skinline.

i dont even know what this next skin is called i always call him homeless talon. he's ugly but if im jungling then its the one i use. ugly ass.

i think this is controversial but i dont like blood moon. snow moon is cooler and i think talon would be there instead if he didnt already have one, but i dont like bm much as a thematic. and i think this skin is ugly, he looks like a frog. (??? how? i dont know.) something about prestige high noon's pose fucks with me, though the quality of the splash is insane. i dont like his head and i miss when he had the undershirt. prestige icon is cute tho. and then crimson guard.... crimson elite(??) talon... idk, what is there even to say.

dude the primal ambush icon is soooo cute to me and i looove the idea that he gets to be in the catboy spotlight but man this was such a miss for me. thematically SO shallow, and the splashart looks a lil funky imo. his hair being the same color as the fluff on his cape implies that he used his own hair to make it and his hair is so fucked the way it sticks up like that. armblade design was cool i guess but i dont like the colors of the whole thing and it was such a letdown for me. idc im a hater, if you liked it then im happy for you.

oh and i know this isn't a Real skin or anything but..

THIS SKIN IS SO CUTE and i would LOVE IT IN SR IM NOT IMMUNE. it would be wrong to put it in top tier due to it not being a real skin/having a bio but the amount of hc/words this has spawned already deserves it tbh. please i beg you

thanks if you read this. feel free to disagree, s just my opinion.

[queencoldart]

Help with naming a (not-so) Chinese princess

I should have done this a lot sooner but I could really use some help naming a character of mine.

Context: the character in question is a lóng(龙) princess of the second rank in a fictional, Chinese-inspired setting contained within a My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic fan-based universe. Characters within the setting typically refer to her as "212th princess". That isn't a typo. Her father is ancient and has hundreds of kids.

The princess usually has a calm disposition. Overall she tends to be good-natured and open-minded. Because of her family history she has the ability to bend weather. She is intelligent and was cultivated from a young age to be a well-educated and well-rounded princess of many talents. Her mother is just competitive enough to retain a fairly comfortable position in the palace, but unambitious enough to keep a low profile. Because of this, the princess and her little brother enjoy a relatively carefree upbringing, as far as a prince and princess in the forbidden city are concerned. When the princess is faced with adversity, she endures it well. This, and the fact that she hatched during the latter half of the winter, earned her an association with plum blossoms. Her dresses often feature a plum blossom motif.

The mother of the princess is an Imperial Concubine(嬪) and her father is the Tiānlóng(天龙) Emperor. Because Tiānlóng sounds sort of like Qiánlóng—at least to my western ears—I decided to loosely base the empire these dragons are from on the Qīng dynasty. (I know lóng aren't really "dragons")

If you are familiar with MLP:FiM, you'll know what this entails. Equestria is not the United States of America, but it has cities like Manehattan, Baltimare, Fillydelphia and Las Pegasus, it has Wild West and Bayou Country locations, and it even features characters that have/had real-life counterparts, like the Hooffields and McColts and a not-Elvis impersonator.

Manechuria, which is the "Ponish" name for the empire my lóng princess character is from, is like that too; there is a forbidden city, there is a concubinage system that functions basically the same way as the system that was implemented by the Kāngxī Emperor, there is a service period for palace maids, silver "talons" (based on taels) are used as currency, the court system works similarly, etc... But even with those elements there, Manechuria is not imperial Manchu-led China and there are marked differences; for example, the empress is nowhere near as tragic as poor Empress Xiàoxiánchún and the lóng aren't quite the same legendary creatures as they are in Chinese culture, though I am doing my best to be respectful with the creative liberties I am taking.

The naming conventions of the Manechurian dragons do not match those of modern or imperial China, though a few possible names for the princess I came up with would have probably worked in real life. We'll get to that later. Many of the characters' names follow a theme instead: palace maids are named after musical instruments like Pípá, Xīqín or Èrhú. Concubines are named after Chinese weapons and have names like Jǐ Pín(Imperial Concubine Polearm), Gùn Guìfēi (Noble Consort Staff), Qiāng Fēi (Consort Spear), Chuí Pín (Imperial Concubine Mace) and Jiàn Fēi (Consort double-edged straight sword).

By the way, I am aware that combining certain characters and sounds in Chinese makes them take on excessively weird or bad meanings/connotations, or just plain makes them sound bad. If you have a good grasp of Chinese and see that I combined characters or sounds that I probably shouldn't combine, please let me know.

This brings me to names for the emperor's children. I would like to have generational names for them, but I also recognize that this is probably a tall order if we are sticking with a theme and have to account for so many princes and princesses. I don't plan on naming them all for sure! I want to primarily focus on the 212th princess, too.

Some themes I considered were: Natural phenomena and scenery: Yìngyuè(映月), Yuèhuá(月华), Xiáyún(霞云), Xiálù(霞露), Bīngwén(冰纹) Flora: Xiǎolián(小莲), Liánxiāng(莲香), Lǜméi(绿梅), Méihuā(梅花; I really dislike this option, though) Cultural crafts, skills and items on China's intangible cultural heritage list: Xìqǔ(戲曲), Yīnyuè(音樂), Jīngxiù(京繡), Rónghuā(绒花) Gems/jewels: Zhēnzhū(珍珠), Línglóng(玲珑; I really like this one but I'm afraid racists will ruin it. Should I stop caring about what they might ruin?)

I would really like to hear thoughts and suggestions from people who understand Chinese.

Here is a picture of the character: